


Green Light

by ProseApothecary



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 'Relationship Definitely Hurtling Towards Something', M/M, Post-Notapocalyspe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-03 01:28:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20256025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProseApothecary/pseuds/ProseApothecary
Summary: They usually go to the bookshop for nightcaps. When Aziraphale is sloshed, he likes giving dramatic readings of whichever book is closest.But Crowley hadn’t found himself ready to face the bookshop yet, still flush with memory.So they ended up here, standing in Crowley’s living room, trying to formulate a new routine.





	Green Light

They usually go to the bookshop for nightcaps. When Aziraphale is sloshed, he likes giving dramatic readings of whichever book is closest.

But Crowley hadn’t found himself ready to face the bookshop yet, still flush with memory.

So they ended up here, standing in Crowley’s living room, trying to formulate a new routine.

Aziraphale’s focus immediately goes to the plants.

“Oh, you have even more than last time!” He points to a tiny succulent on a shelf. “This one is _delightful_.”

“Don’t _say_ that,” Crowley hisses, “that one’s such a _brat_.”

“I don’t know what you could possibly mean. It’s beautiful.”

“You may as well keep it, now that you’ve set it on a path of destruction.”

“Oh, thank you!” Aziraphale says, clutching the pot tightly. “But I wager it will be outperform any of these.” He gestures around the room.

“I’ll take that bet. Look, it’s already starting. It was verdant a minute ago. Now it’s chartreuse.”

“Really dear, I don’t think even you believe your own strategy. I mean, you don’t insult _me_ for my own improvement.”

“Oh, I do. Sometimes it goes over your head.”

Crowley could swear Aziraphale rolls his eyes a little, except that angels don’t do that.

“Besides. You don’t _wilt_.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, with a smile somewhere between teasing and charmed. “So I’m verdant?”

Skirting the edge of what’s been sparking in the air, ever since they became free agents.

_Not verdant, _Crowley thinks. _The white light of a corona, mid-eclipse. Sparking all the brighter for its shadows._

But that’s not his line. He’s learnt to live in the grey of “I’m here, when you want me,” and “no sooner than that”.

Crowley swallows. “Viridian, really.”

They both know what it means. But it’s vague enough to let Aziraphale walk away, vague enough to let Crowley come back, and act like he hasn’t ventured his soul.

Aziraphale doesn’t walk away. Somehow, breaks from tradition are proving a habit.

His smile feathers across his face and he moves closer.

Crowley flexes the tendons in his wrists, and, without realising, backs into a shelf.

“Careful, dear.”

Aziraphale reaches past Crowley to stop a statuette falling, and Crowley feels the brush of a sleeve against his cheek. Softly and swiftly replaced by Aziraphale’s fingertips.

And he _wants_, but a millennium of reinforcement has taught him to _sit_ and _stay_ and _kneel_, and he finds himself as static as a bee in amber. Crowley hopes, for once, Aziraphale is the one to accelerate things, because to stop here would be a cruelty and a kindness beyond what Crowley could stand.

Aziraphale is not that cruel, nor that kind.

The kiss lasts for a few seconds, or roughly the duration of the British Empire, depending on who you ask.

In any case, Crowley only opens his eyes sometime after, when he hears “Oh dear,” and registers, dimly, that there should be a comma in there somewhere.

Aziraphale looks at him, concerned. “I hope I didn’t misread-”

Crowley enthusiastically puts that fear to rest. Too enthusiastically, perhaps, but how was he supposed to know that Aziraphale was still holding that Satan-forsaken plant?

And upon seeing a bratty little plant interrupt a kiss that very well could’ve sustained him for the next few millennia just by _taking a tumble_, well, what could one do but laugh?

Aziraphale’s expression manages to straddle the line between sheepish and venomous as he quickly kneels down to scoop the dirt back into the pot. “It’s fine. Perfectly fine. Just a little rattled.”

Crowley fights the urge to point out that the leaves are a little greener. Could be a trick of the light, after all.

Things do seem brighter in here.

**Author's Note:**

> I obviously did not come up with the 'Aziraphale tortures Crowley by being nice to his plants' trope, but it was more of a tidal wave sweeping over Tumblr than one specific person I can credit. I'm glad everyone agrees on it though :)


End file.
